


Enjoying the View

by fits_in_frames



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Alcohol, Confessions, Crowley Watches Aziraphale Eat (Good Omens), Fade to Black, First Kiss, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hand Feeding, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: "Aziraphale didn't mind the watching. He liked to eat, and he liked to be with Crowley, and if he could do both at the same time, he was absolutely willing to let Crowley observe him like that. He had always been curious, though, and so the wine and the late hour and the giddiness at being reunited with Crowley seemed like very good excuses for boldness."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 112





	Enjoying the View

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you plan on writing a whole other thing, and then a 4-minute video _comes for you where you live_ , and you write something like this instead.
> 
> Rated T mostly for language. And if it wasn't obvious, there's going to be some references to the lockdown/quarantine situation (although only as a framework for the story). If that's too upsetting right now, please take care of yourself <3
> 
> And of course thank you once again to [onedamnangryfrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onedamnangryfrog/) for the beta-read <33

It was five minutes to midnight.

Back at the beginning of May, July hadn't seemed that far away. Two months was nothing compared to the literal _hundreds of years_ Aziraphale had been separated from Crowley in the past. And when he had called Crowley that day, they had _already_ spent almost two months apart. But after hearing Crowley's voice, and (as much as he hated to admit it) with no customers to pester him, two months had practically felt like two centuries. He glanced at his pocket watch.

Four minutes to midnight.

During that time, he had considered calling Crowley several times (eighteen and a half times, to be exact), but always decided against it. Crowley said he was going to sleep, and Aziraphale wouldn't want to disturb him, no matter how tempted he was. He eyed the telephone, then checked the watch again.

Three minutes.

The bookshop, which had been pleasantly cool all day despite the balmy weather, suddenly felt stifling. Aziraphale loosened his bowtie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. Much better. And then, he remembered: _the torte_.

Two minutes.

He dashed off to the kitchenette to check inside the refrigerator. The temperature hadn't changed, and the torte was safely chilling. He breathed a small sigh of relief.

One.

He very casually walked over to the phone, as if it were going to judge him for approaching too quickly. He flexed his fingers in the air above the receiver, his eyes fixed on the face of his watch. The seconds seemed to crawl by.

Midnight. One second. Two. Three. Four. Five. The grandfather clock, which always ran a bit slow, chimed.

And then Aziraphale dialed Crowley's phone number as quickly as the rotary dial would allow it.

"Hngh?" was Crowley's muffled answer after fifteen rings.

"Does the offer still stand?"

"Wha--?"

"The offer." Aziraphale paused. No answer. "To, um, slither over here with wine and such."

"What--what year is it?" Crowley mumbled.

"Same year, darling," Aziraphale said, trying to sound pleasant despite his growing impatience. It was nearly two minutes past midnight. "It's July the 2nd. I gave you a whole extra day to _sleep in_."

Crowley chuckled, half sleepy and half amused. "Yeah. Yeah, it still stands."

"So, when can you be here?"

A rustle of fabric, the sounds of Crowley's jaw popping. "Hang on, is the lockdown still on?"

"Ah..." He had been so eager to see Crowley again that he hadn't really given it a thought. And now that he did, he realized it was somewhat complicated: the answer was _technically_ yes, but they were letting _healthy_ people meet in _small_ groups, and since they were, of course, not really _people_ , and even if they were, _two_ is the smallest group possible--

"You know what, on second thought, I don't care," Crowley continued in the absence of a response. "I'll be there in five minutes."

Aziraphale didn't know he was holding his shoulders up until they dropped as he hung up the phone.

\--

Crowley arrived, as promised, five minutes after their phone call ended. Aziraphale greeted him, bowtie undone, sleeves rolled up, a dusting of flour still on his shirt, and Crowley was almost overcome with affection. He wanted to drop the wine he was carrying and hug Aziraphale, but he was being ushered inside the shop ("get in here before someone sees you, you old snake") before he could do anything of the sort.

They drank in the back room for nearly an hour, talking about nothing in particular, before Aziraphale remembered his cake. He brought it out proudly, its dark glaze glistening in the warm light. He called it a _Prinzregentorte_ , and cut a healthy-sized slice for each of them. Crowley mostly ignored his piece (although the small portion that he _did_ eat was delicious), and was very grateful that his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses because--well. He hadn't misspoken two months ago when he said _slither over and watch you eat cake_.

While he did indulge in it from time to time, he really had only a passing interest in human food--a side effect of using it in The First Temptation, no doubt. But the first time he dined with Aziraphale (oysters in 1st century Rome) it was hard _not_ to notice how much the angel delighted in all the tastes and smells and textures. He found himself enjoying Aziraphale's enjoyment more than the actual food itself. That feeling had persisted, and as their acquaintance shifted, glacially, into a friendship, what was initially a fascination morphed at an equal pace into a more generalized fondness. At the times when sharing a meal was one of the only activities they could do together, watching Aziraphale relish every bite was the closest Crowley was going to get to reciprocation.

He had hoped that, in the post-Armageddon world, their relationship would be allowed to flourish into something beyond friendship. They had even started moving in that direction (Aziraphale had recently been calling him _darling_ ), then this _lockdown_ happened. Aziraphale, of course, was going to follow the _rules_ , even if they weren't Heaven's rules, and Crowley couldn't bring himself to stop him. They'd been apart for nearly four months ( _shouldn't be called a quarantine if it's longer than 40 days and nights_ , Crowley would grumble to himself, alone in his flat) with only a single phone call to tide themselves over.

Sure, he'd slept for a bit, but mostly he just...sat around, missing Aziraphale. Which was stupid, really. Four months was little more than a blip of time, and yet he found himself longing for the day when they could be together again, and especially when he could sit across from Aziraphale and drink in his satisfied expression after some fresh sushi or a delicate _mille-feuille_. So when Aziraphale had called earlier that night, it took quite a lot of effort for him to not immediately miracle himself across London with a case of mid-20th century merlot in his arms.

It was approaching 4AM, and more than half of the cake was gone. Aziraphale had been dwelling on every single bite of it, as if it was not the latest in a long line of confections that had paraded through the bookshop's kitchenette in the last several weeks. He loaded up another piece on his fork, and Crowley, feeling oddly jealous of the spongy morsel, picked up his wine glass to take a drink.

But instead of eating right away, Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and said, "Enjoying the view?"

Wine nearly came out of Crowley's nose.

\--

Aziraphale didn't mind the watching. He liked to eat, and he liked to be with Crowley, and if he could do both at the same time, he was absolutely willing to let Crowley observe him like that. He had always been curious, though, and so the wine and the late hour and the giddiness at being reunited with Crowley seemed like very good excuses for boldness.

He savored his bite of cake while Crowley spluttered into his glass for a minute or so before finally choking out, "Pardon?"

"There's no shame in it," Aziraphale continued. "There's a whole community on the internet. Lots of videos on You-Tube."

"What--you--" Crowley stammered. "How, and why, were _you_ on _YouTube_?"

Aziraphale blushed, his ears growing warm. "I know how to use a computer, Crowley. And I--I needed to look up the ratio of duck eggs to chicken eggs because I couldn't get my hands on the former and there was nothing in any of my books." He hadn't expected to be interrogated like this. He cut himself another small bite of cake. "Mukbang is very popular in Korea," he muttered, and then in went the cake, if only to stop himself from talking so much.

Crowley barked out a short laugh. "I'm sure it is, but I'm not--" He shook his head. "It's not like that."

Aziraphale set his fork down. He was almost regretting his courage from a moment ago, but the curiosity had only increased. "So, what is it like?"

Crowley drained his glass in one gulp. "Makes you happy."

Aziraphale blinked, confused. He was sure Crowley thought he was being inconspicuous (although he very much was not). "The watching?"

"The eating." Crowley shifted in his seat, and poured himself more wine.

"Oh. Well, yes, of course. I'm afraid you haven't answered my question, though."

"It makes you happy, and that--that makes me happy. So." Crowley took a long sip of wine, very pointedly looking away. "There it is."

Aziraphale was a bit stunned. He was under the impression demons weren't even _capable_ of such positive emotions. And yet every excuse he came up with for why Crowley would lie about such a thing seemed weaker than the last, until he was finally left with only one conclusion. "I make you...happy."

Crowley looked at him, face twitching into a smile. "Yeah."

\--

Crowley felt a bit like a deflated balloon. He had been holding in those feelings for so long--so very, very long--and now they were all out in the air. And Aziraphale wasn't running away; in fact, he seemed pleased, which was not exactly what Crowley was expecting. He sank into his chair and drained his glass again, then reached for the bottle between them. Aziraphale held out his own glass, and Crowley filled it.

"Well, for the record," Aziraphale said before taking a sip, "you also make me very, um, happy."

"I know," Crowley said, because at this point, he'd be a fool if he didn't. That didn't mean it wasn't _very_ nice to hear it out loud. He couldn't stop himself from propping his elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his hand, like some kind of giddy schoolboy.

Aziraphale looked at him, and then at the cake, and then back at him. And then, in a stunning display of disregard for Crowley's well-being, the angel bit his bottom lip.

Crowley gulped.

\--

Aziraphale told himself that the line of thought he was following was very reasonable. He was, after all, charged with bringing light and goodness and _happiness_ to others. And Crowley had just told him, in no uncertain terms, what made him happy. So when he picked up his fork, already laden with cake, and held it out across the table, handle facing Crowley, he was fairly sure he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

"Would you like to do the honors?"

Crowley looked at the fork, brow knitted, and then back up at him. "What?"

Aziraphale grinned, feeling emboldened once again. "Would you like to be the _cause_ of my happiness?"

Crowley's mouth fell open slightly.

Aziraphale held out the fork a little closer, and nodded at it.

Crowley pressed his lips together, and took it.

Aziraphale leaned across the table, mouth open, eyes closed.

"Um."

Aziraphale opened his eyes. He thought he was being _very_ obvious, did he have to spell it out entirely?

"Might be--" Crowley licked his lips "--might be easier if you, uh. Come over here."

_Oh._

\--

Crowley felt like his insides were on fire. Aziraphale had dragged his chair over and was sitting in front of him, leaning forward, one knee slotted between his legs. He could have reached Aziraphale's mouth if he also leaned forward, but, well, there was an easier solution. He just hoped it could happen without him actually bursting into flames.

"Um," he said again, not moving.

Aziraphale made a slightly impatient face. "And what would you have me do? I can't get much closer to you without sitting in your la--oh," Aziraphale said, answering his own question.

Crowley barely noticed Aziraphale getting up and then straddling his thighs, because he was concentrating very hard on not letting smoke come out of his ears.

"Guess lockdown really got to us, huh?" It was a stupid thing to say, but by the time he realized that, it was already out of his mouth.

Aziraphale leaned in a little, bracing himself on the arms of Crowley's chair. "Absence does make the heart grow fonder and all that." He stuck out his bottom lip. "Although the previous half-dozen millennia may have had something to do with it, too." A pause. His gaze moved to the fork. "Well," he said, again with that mild impatience.

Crowley had almost forgotten about the cake.

\--

It was nothing new, this idea of Crowley feeding him. Aziraphale would often ask for a bite or two off of Crowley's plate--there were the mussels in Barcelona, or the baklava in Constantinople, or the ratatouille in Nice--and each time Crowley would offer up a spoonful or a forkful directly into Aziraphale's waiting mouth. But these circumstances were, well--they were _quite_ different, to say the least.

Crowley pressed the fork to Aziraphale's lips, and Aziraphale parted them to take in his own handiwork--the rich ganache and the fluffy sponge and the sweet buttercream. A small moan escaped him as he reveled in the flavors, and then he noticed that Crowley was gripping the arm of the chair with his other hand so hard that his fingers were turning white.

They weren't human, of course, but sometimes their bodies reacted in human ways, so Aziraphale would later blame _instinct_ for grabbing Crowley's hand at that moment. Crowley yelped.

And then, sitting in Crowley's lap, holding his hand, and knowing that their affection was mutual, Aziraphale did the most human thing he could think of.

"Oh, fuck it," he said, and kissed Crowley.

\--

Crowley was very surprised he hadn't turned into a smoldering pile of ashes on the floor of the bookshop, because Aziraphale was kissing him. He smelled like caramel and apple blossoms, and tasted like chocolate, and, most importantly, _was kissing him_.

But before Crowley could get past the momentary shock and react properly, the fork slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Aziraphale pulled away suddenly at the noise, shaking his head. "S-sorry."

Crowley realized they were still holding hands, and tightened his grip a little. "Why?"

Aziraphale looked away. "I should have asked."

Aziraphale had taken Crowley's bewilderment as disinterest: he thought the kiss was unwanted, when it was absolutely anything but. Crowley took off his sunglasses, and set them on the table. "Ask me now."

Aziraphale shifted slightly in Crowley's lap, and looked at him with a combination of relief and affection. "May I kiss you?"

"That," Crowley said, putting his free hand on the back of Aziraphale's neck, "would make me very, very happy."

\--

The next time Aziraphale looked at his pocket watch, it was five minutes to midnight again. The watch was still attached to his waistcoat, which had been taken off several hours ago and was currently draped over the back of the sofa where they were both laid out. The warmth and weight of Crowley on top of him was very pleasant, and looking down to find Crowley looking back at him (smiling sleepily, with his chin propped up on his folded hands) was even better.

"Hi, angel."

Aziraphale smiled back. And then, although he was fairly certain of the opposite, he said, "I suppose you'll be heading back soon."

Crowley nestled himself down a bit further, between Aziraphale's legs. "Wouldn't want to set a bad example," he said, resting his cheek on Aziraphale's stomach. "I'll just have to stay here, I guess."

Aziraphale gently carded his fingers through Crowley's hair, and thought it might be nice to just stay like this for the foreseeable future, regardless of whether or not lockdown was still in effect. Crowley made a very, very pleased noise. "Guess you will," he said, and the slow grandfather clock struck midnight.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is the cake Aziraphale made](https://germanculture.com.ua/baking-recipes/prinzregententorte-bavarian-layered-chocolate-cake/), I really want to try it ;_;
> 
> {Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://dreamsincolor.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fits_in_frames)!}


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